Angel
by Fififjonka
Summary: When Sherlock was young, something awful happened. His darkest secret he'd been hiding from John all the time, horrified his only friend would one day find out. But when an old enemy strikes unexpectedly, leaving Mycroft helpless for the first time in his life, John slowly uncovers the secret himself while fighting for Sherlock's life. Hints of abuse and violence. R&R, please.
1. Proloque I

John opened his eyes, looking up at the ceiling. Did he hear the bell? He definitely shouldn't have, for it was 2 am in the morning. But then he heard it again. He got up slowly, doing his best not to wake up Mary. Then he stumbled upon his blanket and fell on the floor.

"Don't try to be quiet, darling," Mary said, completely awake. "I can't look at you hurting yourself."

"Thanks," John muttered.

"Who could it be at this time?"

"I have no idea. You better stay here."

"Of course," Mary said, getting up and following him despite his objections. They stayed in the hallway and John looked into the peephole.

"Who's there?" he asked, frowning.

"Good morning, John."

John raised his eyebrows.

"Mycroft? What are you doing here, for god's sake?"

"I thought we could have a cup of tea together and a little bit of chat…"

"It's two pm!"

"I have something to discuss with you," Mycroft said. "Something to discuss in privacy, if possible."

John looked at Mary and she shrugged, saying: "It's definitely important, John. He wouldn't be there otherwise."

"You should listen to her; we all know she's smarter than you…" Mycroft remarked.

"Oh, be quiet," John said and opened the door. Mycroft was alone when he walked in, greeting them with his usual smooth smile.

"I'll make the tea," Mary decided, putting a dressing coat up. John followed Mycroft into their living room, where he had already been sitting on the sofa.

"So what's this all about again?" John asked, crossing his arms on his chest. "I have nothing against casual visits, you know, but it's a bit bizarre when it's in the middle of a night."

"Sherlock's disappeared," Mycroft said. John wasn't surprised.

"He only disappears when he wants to. Haven't you two had a fight or something?"

"We have," Mycroft admitted, "but that's not it. I haven't heard of him for a month."

"So haven't I," John said. "And I still think it's only because he felt like vanishing for some time."

"That's what I thought too," Mycroft said. "Until I received a very specific video recording."

John didn't know why the image of Sherlock dancing to an ABBA song popped up in his head. He dismissed it instantly.

"Well, what was the video about?" he asked patiently, finding Mycroft's habit of pausing after every sentence very annoying at the moment. Mycroft was silent for a couple of seconds and then he leaned forward and opened his laptop. John sat down next to him, looking at the screen and rubbing his eyes.

"Hello, Mr Holmes…"

John straightened up. The voice was inhuman, electronic. The blank screen went white and suddenly, it changed into a room. Only an empty corner of the room was visible.

"Wondering where your brother is?" the voice spoke again. The image trembled as somebody picked the camera up.

"I would like to assure you he's well taken care of."

John started feeling quite bad about it and his suspicion turned out to be right when the camera revealed a man with a black bag on his head.

"As I said, your brother is doing fine…"

John was praying it wasn't him. He wished it to be a really stupid joke.

"He thought he had the upper hand. He's really very overconfident but I guess it's running in the family."

"No way," Mycroft muttered inaudibly. The camera zoomed at the man then and someone's hand appeared, taking the bag off his head.

"Oh no…" John breathed out. It was Sherlock; there were no doubts about it. He looked like he hadn't slept in ages but had that smile on his lips, almost as if he was enjoying it in a way.

"Hi, brother," he said. He narrowed his eyes, pretending to be able to see him.

"Could you stop rubbing your chin, please?"

John looked at Mycroft and he gave him a bitter smirk.

"I stopped it when I saw it the first time, John."

"Oh…" John looked back at the screen.

"My kind abductor wanted me to say hello to you," Sherlock continued. "He says if I try to reveal my location in any way, he will cut my head off. But except for that he's a good man. I have this nice room and I finally have some time for myself."

Mycroft shook his head.

"So foolish…" he said to himself.

"I have an idea he wants something from you," Sherlock said. "Most probably in exchange for my life. I'm quite curious how you'll decide, brother."

Sherlock winked into the camera and John rubbed his eyes.

"That's typical," John said. "We're going to worry here while he would be enjoying the thrill of mortal danger."

"As usual," Mycroft remarked. The electronic voice spoke.

"Now you can believe me your brother is alive and in my care. He seems to be enjoying it a lot, don't you think?"

Someone punched Sherlock in the face at the moment. John jumped up on the sofa.

"Don't worry, he's doing that all the time," Sherlock said and was punched again, this time it left a torn lip and a bloody rivulet was trickling down his chin.

"Oh my god," Mary said when she returned with the tea tray.

"Stop it, you bastard," John growled. They put the bag back on Sherlock's head.

"You know what to do, Mr Holmes," the voice said. "Wait for my next message."

And the recording ended.

"So you've seen it," Mycroft said, closing the laptop and taking a cup of tea.

"Thank you, Mary," he said. John was staring at him.

"We must get him out!" he said loudly. "Right now!"

"Excellent idea," Mycroft said. "But I'm afraid they will never let him go alive. They know who he is and by this point he knows everything about them. Letting him go would be like giving me a detailed description of them and their plans."

Mycroft put the cup on the table, looking John in the eyes and giving him a smile.

"Whatever I do, John, he dies anyway."


	2. Prologue II

"When you'll get another message?"

"Soon."

"And we are going to wait? We won't do anything; we'll just sit here and wait…"

Mycroft looked at John over his laptop.

"You can make some breakfast."

"I don't believe it," John said, getting up from the sofa and running his hand through his hair.

"Why are you so nervous, John?" Mycroft asked as he continued typing something. John turned, staring at him.

"And why are you so calm?"

"I worry inside," Mycroft assured him and John nodded.

"Right. You're counting on your superpowers. But what if this is beyond you?"

Mycroft laughed briefly.

"What an interesting thought," he remarked. John sighed and sat back on the sofa. It was almost nine in the morning, Mary had just been having a shower and he was supposed to be at work in five minutes.

"Listen to me, John," Mycroft said, putting the laptop aside. "There's going to be another message including the requirements. When we know what they want, we can start making a plan. I'm filling the time with doing other useful things."

"Do you have any idea who they are?"

"Not yet," Mycroft said. "Sherlock didn't tell me anything about his little trip."

"And you didn't stalk him like you always do, right? I don't buy this, Mycroft. You know about his every move, don't tell me –"

"Of course I searched," Mycroft interrupted him. "He left me fake clues. I followed them and they led to nowhere."

"Why would he do that?"

Mycroft was looking him in the eyes.

"He was after something he wanted to hide from me. Really hide from me."

"What could that be?"

Mycroft looked away and John knew he was lying when he said: "I'm not sure."

"Anything new?" Mary asked, walking in with a towel wrapped around her hair.

"No," John said. "Mycroft suggested we do something useful like washing the floor before the next message arrives."

Mycroft sighed and opened his mouth to speak when a silent beep could be heard, coming from his laptop. They didn't say anything but gathered around the computer while Mycroft played the recording.

"Hello, Mycroft," the voice said and John felt his hair stand up. There was something about the voice, something frightening.

"You think how easily you'll handle this situation once you know what I want… Are you expecting my requirements? What do you think I want – money? Releasing a mass murderer? Secret information on the Queen?"

There was a short pause.

"What if I told you, dear Mycroft, I want none of it? What if I told you I simply enjoy your absolute helplessness? Imagine you have no requirements to meet or no clue about your brother's whereabouts… What exactly would you do, Mycroft?"

The screen went white from black and changed to the room they saw in the previous recording. John felt his guts twist painfully when the camera showed Sherlock, the bag removed from his head, and he was very pale and more bruised than before. Mycroft flinched a little bit and Mary squeezed John's shoulder.

"I know how this looks like," Sherlock said, his voice less carefree than before but still quite firm, "but I'm really having fun."

Sherlock smirked.

"You haven't showed it to John, have you, Mycroft? You know him. He's going to panic and things like that; he's going to call you names for remaining your usual impassive self… He's probably going to kick your ass and – you know what, show him."

Suddenly, somebody appeared beside Sherlock. They couldn't see the head but Sherlock was listening to whoever it was, still looking into the camera.

"I knew it," Sherlock said with satisfaction. "I knew you would eventually want him to know. My abductor wants me to reveal his identity. Do you have any guesses, Mycroft? No? Take your time…"

Sherlock frowned, obviously teasing him. Mycroft who was fully absorbed by watching the recording moved his hand as if he wanted to slap Sherlock across the face.

"Clueless, I see," Sherlock said. "Fine, let me have the pleasure to introduce you your old friend. Our mutual friend."

Sherlock pouted.

"Angel," he said. Mycroft widened his eyes, backing off slightly from the laptop.

"Impossible…" he breathed out.

"Now when you know it, brother, you know what's going to happen. So I ask you again, don't tell John. Make up a story, a different story, for him."

Sherlock sighed.

"You are probably angry with me now. Well, I stumbled upon a clue. Subtle enough so I didn't see it had been set for me. Which was very smart of you, by the way," Sherlock remarked to Angel, who was still standing beside him.

"I followed it. And I found who I was looking for…"

Sherlock paused and lifted his eyes to Angel. He was speaking to him, evidently, because Sherlock was listening. And a smile started spreading over his face.

"Well, this is interesting…" he said eventually. "I've been just told you knew about it the whole time."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

"That's a surprise, dear brother."

"Enough."

It was the voice again, Angel's voice. A hand in a black leather glove appeared, squeezing Sherlock's shoulder. John saw Sherlock tense under the touch, tense with what could only be fear.

"You know all you need, Mycroft," Angel said. "There will be more messages, featuring more of your little brother. Remember how he looks like now, for it won't last any longer."

And the video ended, leaving all three of them in stunned silence. John turned at Mycroft and was actually shocked even more when he saw his face that was – for lack of further description – horrified.

John was the first one to speak.

"Who is Angel?" he asked, sure he didn't want to know the answer. Mycroft finally looked away from the blank screen.

"Angel," he said slowly, "will – in the following couple of days – become my brother's murderer."


	3. Memories I

Mycroft was nervously tapping on his knee while sitting in a police car, going fast through the city. It wasn't late. There was still enough time to save him.

Mycroft clenched his fist, hitting his leg in anger.

How come he hadn't noticed? How come he'd been so unforgivably stupid and ignorant? All this wouldn't have to happen… His fourteen year old brother wouldn't have fallen into the hands of this disgusting, manipulative, vicious, pederastic psychopath.

He felt his heart ache when he remembered all he read about what Angel had done. The images of it kept reappearing in front of his eyes. He had always been detached from things like that. Always until the moment a few hours ago when he had realized with utter horror Angel had got his brother.

But how? How could it happen right in front of his eyes? He had been hunting the man for the last couple of months; he had devoted every single second to it. When thinking of it, he hadn't seen much of Sherlock at the time. He simply hadn't had the time.

He was so blind.

"Could you go faster, please," he said to the driver, his voice tense under the calm surface.

"We're nearly there, sir," the police driver said and Mycroft sat back, feeling even worse. The moment when he was going to find out whether his brother was still alive was almost there.

Angel the phantom, Angel the nightmare. A genius thief, cold-blooded murderer, merciless terrorist, sleazy abuser. A criminal mastermind almost every country had encountered and he – Mycroft Holmes – finally tracked down. It should have occurred to him he would try to use Sherlock as a weapon against him.

Mycroft flinched when he recalled the picture of the victims of Angel's deviation. Young boys raped violently, mutilated, bludgeoned, tortured to death…

The car stopped abruptly in front of an uncompleted building near the border of London. Mycroft got out the car quickly.

"You must stay here, sir, until the area is secured," a policeman stopped him. Mycroft looked him in the eyes angrily but stayed still, watching them getting inside. His heart was beating frantically the whole time that seemed like centuries before two policemen appeared.

"It's empty. They must have left a few minutes before we arrived."

"Try to find them, they can't be far!" Mycroft shouted, rushing into the building.

"Wait, sir, the area isn't safe yet!" a policeman grabbed him. Mycroft wiped his hand from his shoulder.

"My brother is there! I'm going in!"

Mycroft knew just where to look. He descended into the vast cellar, meeting a few policemen on his way.

"This way, sir…" they said, pointing at a half-opened metal door. Mycroft pushed it, walking inside. The room was sunk in darkness and cold. Mycroft switched the lights on, narrowing his eyes in the sharp light. Sherlock was spread on the floor in the middle of the empty room. His hands were cuffed and he was bloodied and bruised all over his body.

Mycroft heard the approaching ambulance while he was walking towards him. He noticed the dried blood on the walls and floor. He knelt beside him; the terrible damage done to his younger brother was too much for him to comprehend. His heart was slowly filling with guilt and sorrow.

Mycroft took of his jacket and put it over Sherlock. His younger brother didn't move and was barely conscious. Mycroft had nothing to tell him. He wanted to say sorry but he felt it was useless. The only thing that _would be_ useful was going back in time and preventing this from happening.

Mycroft kept sitting there, holding a hand on Sherlock's shoulder, until the ambulance came.

Mycroft was watching it leave. He knew they wouldn't track Angel down again. Not police, at least. But he wasn't going to rely on them. Not this time. He wanted revenge for this and he wanted it as soon as possible. He had a few names to call. And he was willing to pay for Angel's death. Every single penny he had.

He would suffer for what he had done to his little brother.


	4. Memories II

**_Names used_**_: William Cael, Alexander Sera, John Parisa, Philip Moore, Michael Quinn_

**_Nicknames:_**_ Snake, The Pale Man, The German, Angel_

**_Age:_**_ 34 years_

**_Height:_**_ 6, 3 feet (193 cm)_

**_Weight_**_: 174 lbs_

**_Hair:_**_ fair, almost white, shoulder-length_

**_Eyes:_**_ light blue_

**_Skin:_**_ pale_

**_Physique:_**_ slender, fit, athletic_

**_Characteristics:_**_ soft Germanic accent, a scar on his left hand, fond of wearing white clothes_

"You can come in now, sir," the nurse said. Mycroft looked up, closing the file and putting it into his suitcase, locking it.

"Your brother is awake. He's been dehydrated but he's going to be fine. "

"Good," Mycroft said. Tests had been done to make sure Sherlock was healthy, which was major relief for Mycroft. He walked into the room, spotting his younger brother sitting on the bed, looking at the wall. The room was shady as the curtains were down.

Mycroft neared the bed, standing still and in silence behind Sherlock. He was wearing white hospital clothes and he didn't move at all.

"How…"

Mycroft cleared his throat. He shifted his eyes from the bruises he saw on Sherlock's neck and arms.

"How do you feel?" he asked, his voice as calm as possible.

"What did you tell mom and dad?" Sherlock asked.

"I've made a story," Mycroft said. He deduced Sherlock wouldn't want to tell them the truth.

"I've booked you a hotel room that is going to be watched. You will stay there until your health is restored and bruises healed."

Sherlock nodded quietly. Mycroft watched him, feeling the urge to do something to take the pain away. He felt it had been his fault, he felt he had indirectly caused it to him. The doctor had told him the things done to Sherlock and the thought of it would make Mycroft sick whenever it popped up in his mind. Which was every day.

"The nurse told me you are going to be fine soon," Mycroft said formally. "That's good news."

"Yes…" Sherlock said, his voice impersonal. Mycroft breathed in. He would give anything for a little empathy at the moment. Funnily enough, Mycroft was brilliant at manipulating others and predicting their actions, using his knowledge of people's behaviour and emotions, but when he was facing such a thing himself, he was hopeless like a blind person trying to drive a car.

Sherlock continued sitting there, looking at the floor. Mycroft suddenly remembered a very old childhood memory. Sherlock had a nightmare induced by a story Mycroft had told him. He came to his room, frightened, hoping Mycroft would help. And Mycroft laughed at him for being so foolish and walked away…

But this time Sherlock was hurt much deeper. And because of Mycroft, again…

He reached, touching Sherlock's shoulder. Sherlock winced, though, as if he touched him with a white-hot wire.

"Sorry…"

Mycroft withdrew. The guilt in his chest was growing, overwhelming him, choking him. He had rarely paid any attention to Sherlock and his problems, his younger brother's habits and flaws were annoying him, he kept teasing him about his occasionally dull mind although he was aware Sherlock was far beyond the average person and he was going to be even further.

Now he wished he had invested the energy to learning how to communicate with him and get closer to him.

"Have you caught him?" Sherlock asked. Mycroft woke up from his depressing thoughts.

"Not officially, but yes, we have."

"What have you done with him?"

"He's dead."

Sherlock fell silent and Mycroft couldn't tell if he was satisfied or realized Angel's death wouldn't change what had happened.

"Don't tell anyone, Mycroft," Sherlock said then, still not turning at him. His tone was flat.

"I don't want anyone to know. Ever."

"As you wish," Mycroft said quietly. So he was going to have a secret. A secret to keep away from everybody. A secret that would burden both his and his younger brother's heart. A secret he would live with for the rest of his life.

He kept observing Sherlock for a few more minutes. He had never seen his vulnerability so clearly before. Was it so hidden under his arrogance?

He noticed the bruises again and suddenly felt so angry he wanted to chop Angel's head off.

"You can go," Sherlock said. "You don't have to stand there with pity."

Mycroft raised his eyebrows.

"I actually…"

But he didn't know how to finish. He felt the guilt again, the terrible guilt. _Only the guilt._ And he knew he was going to feel it every day from now on.

Sherlock turned at him and gave him a look. Mycroft couldn't read in his eyes. There definitely was something, though. It sent shivers down his spine.

"Go, Mycroft," Sherlock said. Mycroft was looking him in the eyes.

"I will check on you later," he said eventually, turning. He was hoping to the last moment Sherlock would say something to make him stay. He was even hesitating to do something himself – hug him, reassure him, _help_ him… He was aware it was the right thing to do. But he couldn't look at him anymore; he couldn't see it, see what he had done to him.

So he left, closing the door behind him. And when he stood there in the corridor alone, he knew for sure he had just lost his brother forever. As if the moment he could have changed it vanished and was never going back. He had lost his chance…

Mycroft rubbed his eyes, trying to push away the paralysing despair. He shook his head then and regained his composure. He swore to himself he would never ever let anything like that happen again. He would protect and look after his brother wherever he would go.

He certainly couldn't change what had happened, but he could prevent other things from happening.

Yes, that was what he would do. Keep his brother safe from harm… And keep his secret.

Mycroft narrowed his eyes, walking away. Unfortunately there was another secret to keep. Angel wasn't dead.

* * *

_There will be approximately two more chaps with memories. Hope you like so far. Drop a comment to let me know, please. The box is just a click away! Thanks for reading and enjoy!_


	5. Memories III

It was a late autumn evening, a typical depressing one. Mycroft got out of the car, looking up at a grey and old block of flats. He shook his head, wondering about the same thing like many times before. How could he possibly live there? He wouldn't send his cat to live there if he had one.

"Wait here," he said to the driver and began walking the stairs up. He knocked on the door with the number 19 and waited. It was silent on the other side, so he knocked louder. Finally he heard some shuffling sounds, a bit of swearing and an apparent stumbling.

The door opened and Mycroft was reviewed by a pair of narrowed eyes with dilated pupils.

"You…" Sherlock uttered. Mycroft raised his eyebrows.

"I'm sorry, have you been expecting someone?" he asked mockingly.

"Yes, your absence," Sherlock retorted, already annoyed. "What do you want, Mycroft?"

"I'm only checking on you," Mycroft said and walked in while Sherlock slammed the door shut and followed him into the living room.

"I still can't believe you're actually living in this sewer," Mycroft said calmly while looking at the incredible mess that was his younger brother's living room.

"That is no concern of yours," Sherlock said and threw himself into the armchair, closing his eyes. He was wearing something Mycroft judged as pyjamas and a dressing gown and he had been in it for a couple of days.

"Don't just stand there with that cattish face," Sherlock said, not opening his eyes.

"I'm too afraid to sit down," Mycroft said, feeling he was the main thing that didn't belong there. He gave Sherlock a look.

"If you take it once more, I'm really going to have you institutionalised, either by or against your will."

"Oh, shut up," Sherlock growled.

"This is something I _would_ do, Sherlock, I assure you," Mycroft added in a serious tone. He wasn't going to watch him getting high and rotting in this dump. One look at his pale face, sweaty forehead and reddish eyes was enough.

"Next time you overdose, call yourself the funeral service, you'll save me time," Mycroft remarked angrily. Sherlock pretended to be laughing.

"I can manage the doses just fine," he said, rubbing his eyes. Mycroft was watching him. He wanted to make him stop, but on the other hand knew why Sherlock was doing it.

"Damn…" Sherlock breathed out. He swayed into the bathroom and Mycroft heard him throw up into the toilet. When he returned, even paler than before, he fell on the sofa, groaning.

"You seem to be enjoying yourself," Mycroft said. Sherlock turned his head slightly, looking at him with half-lidded eyes.

"It was the breakfast," he mumbled.

"Despite I know you're lying, I would probably believe that – seeing the state your kitchen is in."

"So funny," Sherlock said through his teeth. "What is actually the point of your visit, Mycroft? You've checked on me, so you can get out of here!"

Sherlock glared at him coldly, but in the following second he closed his eyes again, groaning and staggering back to the bathroom like a drunk. The sounds of throwing up filled the flat and Mycroft rolled his eyes.

"I should have known taking drugs is such pleasure," he shouted at Sherlock. "I would have given it a try!"

"Get out!" Sherlock spat out. Mycroft shook his head. He hanged his umbrella over the chair and went to the kitchen – careful not to touch anything – finding a miraculously clean tea towel. Well, it wasn't such a surprise a tea towel in Sherlock's flat was unused, though. Mycroft dampened the towel with water and returned to the living room, where Sherlock had already been back on the sofa, breathing heavily.

"Oh, I rarely see you so happy…" Mycroft said sarcastically. Sherlock's expression was a mixture of anger and sickness. Mycroft dragged a chair to the sofa, sitting down and putting the towel on Sherlock's forehead.

"What's this supposed to be?" Sherlock said. "Stop doing _the mummy_."

"Will you shut your mouth," Mycroft replied, "I'm running out of patience."

He reached for the blanket and threw it on his younger brother, narrowing his eyes with annoyance. Sherlock let him do that – either he gave up or was too tired to fight.

"Now sleep or whatever," Mycroft said. "I will stay until you're fine. I'm not going to explain mother and father why you were found dead in your tub like a mere _junkie_."

Sherlock was laying there for a couple of minutes in complete silence, obviously trying to control the sickness by his mind. After half an hour or so he seemed to feel better a bit.

"So why are you really here?" Sherlock asked him. Mycroft looked up from the laptop.

"I've already told you."

"You told me some lies, yes," Sherlock admitted. Mycroft ignored him. He knew, though, what he was talking about. It had been ten years since Mycroft found his younger brother in the cellar. And nobody had ever mentioned it in the ten years. Not once. The case was closed. Angel's base was destroyed. His people scattered, most of them imprisoned. Mycroft made sure to wipe every single bit connected to that man. But he knew Angel was alive. And although it was extremely unlikely he would ever come back or start over, thinking of him didn't make Mycroft feel well. Especially considering his younger brother.

"I think you're feeling better," Mycroft said. "So I'll go."

"I thought you would make me a cup of tea," Sherlock said, raising an eyebrow. "Or weren't you going to take care of me?"

"No," Mycroft said silently. "I was making sure you were not going to die."

"You can never know," Sherlock objected. Mycroft sighed, but he eventually got up.

"So unlikely of me," he was muttering to himself the whole time. "Making tea. _Me._ And for my brother. And in this cesspool… No, this is not actually happening…"

He brought the tea tray into the living room and poured a cup to his brother. Sherlock managed to sit up, hissing painfully in the process. He looked terrible but Mycroft was rather trying to not see it.

"Thanks," Sherlock said, taking a sip.

"You make good tea. Seems to me you have some practice."

"This is the first tea I've made in the last ten years," Mycroft said. Sherlock glanced at him. He was very well aware why Mycroft had come. He wouldn't say it aloud but he knew.

"Isn't your driver going to be a little annoyed, waiting so long?" Sherlock asked.

"He's paid enough money to endure the _annoying me_."

"Why aren't I paid any money for that?" Sherlock asked and Mycroft snorted, mildly amused.

"Because you are my brother," Mycroft said, looking him in the eyes. "It's a part of your job."

* * *

_I think one or two chaps and this part is over. Let me know what you think and drop a comment, please. Thanks and enjoy!_


	6. Memories IV

_Dear Mr Holmes,_

_I received information on the subject you were interested in. A man meeting the description has been seen in Saasen recently. It's been reported he had also been seen near Monbrunn, staying there for about a month. He was accompanied by two men that did not meet any description you sent. _

_A picture taken 7/11/10 is included in the attachment. _

Mycroft clicked on the picture, focusing on a man walking on the street. Some features of his face were very similar. But it could have been a total stranger too. It was too vague to judge anything. And Mycroft wasn't going to panic over one blurred picture. He drank a bit of his wine, zooming in on his face.

Could it be him? Could he really be looking at Angel?

"How come you're not in the gym?"

Mycroft jumped up, spilling the wine all over his hands and table. He swore in his mind, glaring at Sherlock, who came into the room with the typical self-confident style of his.

"Knock on the door next time," Mycroft said, closing the picture and the e-mail immediately.

"_You_ learn it first and then lecture me," Sherlock said, hands in his pockets.

"But unlike you I may just be doing confidential work," Mycroft said and Sherlock sighed.

"Yes, we all know how important you are. While I am a poor hobo doing insignificant things."

"Something like that, yes," Mycroft said smoothly, sneering a little bit.

"How is it like to live with a human being, Sherlock?"

"A lot different than living with you," Sherlock said and Mycroft laughed briefly. It was his _affected laugh_, as he was calling it, though.

"I find John Watson to be an exemplary definition of a normal, ordinary man," Mycroft continued, crossing his legs.

"Explain to me then, how you two can live under one roof."

"You're jealous, aren't you?"

"Why would I be jealous?" Mycroft wondered, bewildered, his eyebrows up.

"You've always thought I was just as useless considering the _social life_ as you are. And you were wrong. _You_ are the only one."

Mycroft frowned. He could say Sherlock was enjoying it, evidently feeling like he had the upper hand because of his new roommate.

"Don't misinterpret admiration or fascination and genuine friendship," Mycroft said.

"And how could you know, dear brother?" Sherlock asked sarcastically. Mycroft's only answer was a small, cold smile. He was silent for a moment. Of course he was noticing every day how attached Sherlock had grown to John. The fact it was also the other way around was shocking just the same.

Sherlock would defend John whatever the matter would be and he wouldn't hesitate to risk his life to save his. Which was something Mycroft didn't approve of.

"What have you been reading?" Sherlock asked all of the sudden.

"Something that's not your business," he said, sitting comfortably in his chair.

"I know you think I'm an idiot, but I can tell when you're lying," Sherlock said, playing with Mycroft's wine glass.

"Your mouth twists in a very specific way. I think you'd call it a smile."

"Witty," Mycroft remarked. Well, telling the truth that wasn't entirely truth was always a good way how to take precautions.

"A man vaguely meeting the description of Angel has been seen."

The sound of glass breaking could be heard. Mycroft blinked with surprise when Sherlock dropped the wine glass, his eyes widening slightly. He could see fear in his brother's eyes, something rarely visible there.

"The message proved to be incorrect," Mycroft added to calm down Sherlock's distress.

"It was an ordinary unimportant man sharing similar features."

Sherlock was silent but he wouldn't look Mycroft in the eyes. Somehow Mycroft could tell Sherlock needed further assurance.

"He's dead, Sherlock," Mycroft said in a serious tone. "Believe me."

Sherlock nodded once, glancing at him, regaining his composure. Mycroft was watching him, the upset vibes coming from him making him a little uncomfortable.

"You should be more worried about John's influence," Mycroft said and Sherlock raised his eyebrows.

"Why?"

"John has a great effect on your actions," Mycroft added. "I don't like it. It's dangerous."

"And what?" Sherlock asked. "Just deal with it, that's all I have to say. I don't really care if you like it or not."

Mycroft shook his head.

"I should get used to you showing absolutely no gratitude to me for my care."

Sherlock glared at him angrily.

"Oh, cut it Mycroft. I don't want your stupid care. Take your care and leave me alone. Your interfering into everything I do is extremely annoying. You call it _care_; I call it pain in the neck."

Mycroft just stared at him, quiet. He hated the fact Sherlock was able to actually hurt him. He would say all sorts of harsh words and Mycroft had never minded, but at that moment, he did. Mycroft was – in fact – so taken aback he couldn't think of anything to brush him off.

"Sorry," Sherlock uttered suddenly. Mycroft looked up at him, maybe even more shocked than before.

"I apologize, that was uncalled for. You are annoying like hell but I appreciate your care."

It was the closest Sherlock had ever got to expressing gratitude or emotions in general towards Mycroft. It was also a much bigger achievement than Mycroft had ever made. He found himself overwhelmed in a strange way.

"That's fine," he said eventually, his tone calm. Sherlock sat down on Mycroft's table.

"Are you sure it wasn't him?" he asked, trying to sound casual.

"I'm sure. Don't worry, it wasn't Angel."

Sherlock unwittingly touched his wrists when he heard the name.

"_Trauriges Kätzchen_," Sherlock said absent-minded, facing the wall.

"I beg your pardon?"

"_Trauriges Kätzchen_," Sherlock repeated. "_Sad kitten_. That's what he'd been calling me the whole time."

Mycroft merely watched Sherlock's back. He felt as if icy wind blew into the room. Sherlock hadn't spoken to him about it ever before. He locked it inside and they had been pretending it never happened. Mycroft couldn't decide whether he wanted him to tell him or rather wanted to live in ignorance.

"I can't even look at cats now," Sherlock added with a bit of irony.

"You've never told me anything about it," Mycroft said. Sherlock snorted.

"It's not exactly the topic for casual conversation."

"Which we have so often," Mycroft remarked. Sherlock shook his head.

"I don't want to speak about it, Mycroft," he said and was serious about it. Mycroft didn't push him. He hesitated before putting a hand on Sherlock's shoulder. His younger brother tensed under his touch and it felt quite awkward even to Mycroft. He withdrew his hand after a few seconds.

No, he thought with a smirk, the two of them really were terrible at things like that.

"Will you stay?" Mycroft asked.

"Would you want me to?" Sherlock asked, looking at him over the shoulder.

"If I should have another bottle of wine brought in."

Sherlock smirked.

"Am I so difficult to be around that you need to drink to endure it?"

"I really like the way you expressed it in," Mycroft said. "Well, you can have a glass with me, if you want."

"I'm sorry, I only drink unpoisoned wine."

Mycroft pouted, ringing at his secretary.

"Just bear in mind this isn't your flat and I won't tolerate any vomiting in my house."

* * *

_There will be one more chap like that. Hope you like and drop a comment again, to let me know, I'm curious about what you think. Thanks for reading and enjoy!_

_PS: Chap's been corrected slightly, esp. the wine thing (actually really a bit OOC, I agree) + the translation, I sucked at German, had 4 yrs of it and can't remember sh*t :-)_


	7. Memories V

It wasn't only Christmas Mycroft didn't celebrate, but all other kinds of national holidays, name days or anniversaries. He simply wasn't interested. There was always something more important to do than celebrating a thing that happened hundreds years ago – if it actually happened.

So he hardly gave his own birthday any attention. Although the fact he'd been ill on his birthday actually _did _bother him a little.

Instead of what his doctor had told him _("Lay down, Mr Holmes, don't do anything and just rest"),_ Mycroft was walking across his room, collecting a few important documents from the files in his cabinet.

He looked into one file that had been in the cabinet for many years, untouched. There were times, though, when Mycroft had been reading it over and over again. When he had been so close to catching Angel. He believed he had him, only to realize in horror it was Angel who'd had _him_ – respectively his brother.

Mycroft was never too afraid of things. He could calculate the risk factor in a second and work with that. But he would remember that one day when he had been scared.

When he'd discovered Angel's hideout and found his brother, Mycroft ordered his special group of men to chase and kill Angel if necessary. It was also the first time Mycroft had done anything like that – deliberately ordering someone's murder. He managed to completely undermine Angel's organization but he failed to catch _him_. None of his men had returned with any information on Angel's whereabouts. The man had vanished.

Approximately two years after that Mycroft had been reported Angel might have been captured by the Russians, but it'd never proved to be true. He sincerely hoped Angel was dead.

There was a knock on this door, in the next second his room filled with Sherlock's voice.

"Wow, wow, brother, you're being naughty. Is this what your doctor told you?"

Mycroft was watching Sherlock's tour over his office with slightly narrowed eyes.

"Anything important you want to tell me?" he asked. When he was ill and having a headache like that day, his skills for communication with his younger brother were affected significantly.

"Yes, I'm leaving."

"Where?"

"On holiday."

"And I ask again – where?" Mycroft said calmly, but his tone was demanding. Sherlock stopped in front of him with Mycroft's desk between them, crossing arms on his chest.

"Greece…"

_"Greece?"_ Mycroft repeated with laughter. "Absolutely not, Sherlock. There is no way you'd make me believe that. What would you be doing there, sun tanning? Or taking pictures of the ancient temples while drinking ouzo?"

"What's wrong with it?"

"Everything."

"I have a client there, whose case seems interesting to me," Sherlock explained. "I should be back in a month or so."

Mycroft gave him a suspicious look.

"And you came to tell me?"

"I wanted to save you time," Sherlock said. "And nerves."

"The truth now," Mycroft said impatiently.

"I want you to keep an eye on John and Mary for me."

Mycroft was observing him contemplatively, looking into his eyes. Was he telling the truth? He might have… There was no hint of him lying and Mycroft was pretty good at spotting the signs of him telling lies. But he would keep an eye on him too, to make sure.

"It's your birthday today, isn't it?" Sherlock said and gave him a small gift wrapped in blue paper. Mycroft took it, putting one hand into his pocket and studying the gift with a risen eyebrow. Apart from a postcard from his parents, Sherlock was the only one who actually remembered it.

"Why?" Mycroft asked. Sherlock pouted.

"If I didn't give you something, nobody would and you would be totally miserable."

"I see," Mycroft said. "Should I prepare for something atrocious?"

"Definitely…" Sherlock said, waiting. Mycroft unwrapped the gift. It was a pair of silver cuff buttons. Actually, Mycroft was almost surprised how neat looking they were.

"That's too much of a good choice to be yours," Mycroft said. "Who picked it up?"

Sherlock's lips curled into a bitter smirk.

"You meant _thank you_, didn't you? I take it as you like it."

"I do," Mycroft said. "It's actually shocking."

Sherlock laughed briefly.

"By the way, Mycroft, you really look horrible. Do as your doctor told you and go to bed."

Mycroft was silent, noticing Sherlock's amused expression when he was advising _him_ instead of the other way around. He put the box on his table and Sherlock narrowed his eyes slightly.

"Where is it?"

"Where is what?"

"Your ring. You've stopped wearing it?"

Mycroft looked at his hand and felt a stab of pain in his chest. It wasn't there! It must have slipped off his finger as he was sweating with the fever. Damn it! He started searching for it all over his room.

"Don't just stand there, help me," he said to Sherlock, irritated. Sherlock bowed, focusing on the floor as well. They kept looking for it for a few more minutes with Mycroft slowly getting upset.

"There it is…" Sherlock said, raising and handing him the ring. Mycroft took it with relief, putting it back on his finger. He ignored Sherlock's stare and returned to sorting the files.

"Do you still think of her?" Sherlock asked. Mycroft frowned.

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"Don't act so secretive. You wouldn't wear it for so long if it meant nothing to you. It must mean lots to you and I think I have an idea."

"Really?" Mycroft asked, turning at him with a very cold smile. "Share your idea with me, then."

Sherlock was looking at him, hesitating obviously, while Mycroft was wearing his passive mask. He was getting angrier every second underneath, though.

"One day I was sitting in the kitchen, mom and dad were working. You had already moved from the house, but that day you came unexpectedly home. And you had the look in your eyes you had never had again. You sat down to the table next to me and asked me how my day was."

Sherlock paused for a moment.

"I told you and you'd been listening. You gave me fifty pounds then to buy something _useful_ and you walked away. And since that day the ring had appeared."

Sherlock raised his eyebrows.

"So?" he asked. "What was her name? Did she dump you? I wouldn't be surprised."

"I think you were leaving," Mycroft said, his voice icy.

Sherlock ignored the remark.

"It can't be so interesting if it considers you, Mycroft."

"Get out now, Sherlock. I'm serious," Mycroft said, piercing him with his eyes. "I don't feel well enough to bear your presence today."

Sherlock gave him a similar glare before turning and walking away swiftly. Mycroft was watching him close the door, sighing heavily. He was looking at the ring. If he didn't lose it, he wouldn't have to have the extremely uncomfortable conversation. It was the only thing he hadn't yet been able to handle without emotions. It was highly unusual for him to let his feelings intervene in such a way and he felt a need to control it. But it was easier said than done.

So Sherlock remembered that day? Surprising indeed…

Mycroft sat into the chair, tilting his head back and closing his eyes, taking a deep breath. Maybe it was for the best Sherlock would disappear for a while. He was growing tired of his affairs. And with a bit of luck, he could forget everything that happened today.

* * *

_The last memories chap. Hope you like and let me know in the comments again, thanks and enjoy! :-)_


	8. Requirements

The Pale Man, The German, _Angel_… Mysterious deaths all over the continent, the total count more than a hundred… And this man kidnapped Sherlock. How come Sherlock had never _told_ him? And could it be true he had been able to outsmart Mycroft? Because in that case, they might just be screwed.

"Angel is most probably the worst psychopathic murderer I've ever met in my life," Mycroft said, obviously doing his best to ease the tension.

"Unlike Moriarty, who does what he does because he likes pushing the boundaries and testing his intellect, Angel does it because he takes delight in killing people. He was notorious for his cruel methods…"

John's mind was spinning as he was reading through the file. Mary was covering her mouth, looking over his shoulder.

"And Angel's intelligence is unfortunately even higher than Moriarty's."

"But can't be higher than yours," John said, looking up quickly. Mycroft smirked bitterly.

"I'm afraid not even _I_ am able to work with so little information. I already have the best people working on this, but Angel is too smart to give away anything important."

"But there must be something he wants," Mary said. "He says it's revenge but that doesn't mean it's _only _revenge."

"He may want anything from me," Mycroft said. "He knows I can pull the strings…"

John jumped up when his phone rang. He picked it up, hoping it to be Sherlock laughing at him for eating the bait.

"John? This is Molly. Do you know why Sherlock's not answering his phone?"

John looked at Mycroft and he waved his hand dismissively. John told her the truth then and heard her yelp on the other side of the phone.

"Oh my god, John, that's horrible…" she whispered, terrified.

"Hasn't he spoken to you about anything?" John wanted to know.

"He's been there a month or so ago, going through a few files…"

"Could you bring them?"

"Of course, I'll be there as soon as possible."

When Molly came, she was pale and shaky handed. She brought the files, though. It seemed Sherlock was interested in two murders that had happened two months ago. But before they could read it, Mycroft's laptop beeped again. John felt his heart shiver when Mycroft was opening the mail and pressing play.

The screen was dark and silent at first. Then the light bulb flashed, revealing the well-known room. Only this time the chair was empty.

"He's able to endure much more than before…" Angel's voice said when the camera moved around the room.

"Oh my god," Molly gasped, widening her eyes, with Mary's expression being no difference.

"That bastard," John uttered through his gritted teeth. Mycroft didn't say anything but was piercing the screen with narrowed eyes, leaning forward unwittingly.

"I remember him screaming, _Mycroft,_" Angel said, even when the voice was electronic, the amusement could be heard. John was shaking his head lightly as his mind was in refusal the video was real.

"He was so frightened… Begging me to stop…"

Angel was watching Sherlock, although they saw only a small part of his arm and chest.

"Look at him now, Mycroft…"

Sherlock was lying on his back on the floor with his eyes closed, breathing heavily. In a second John had noticed there was a lot of blood on the white walls around. He started feeling sick.

"Look at your little brother, Mycroft," Angel said in the way a mother would speak to a child.

"He's persistent. That means much longer enjoyment for me."

Mycroft's expression was frozen; he was obviously in denial of what he saw.

"He wants to tell you something…"

They could hear steps around the room. John flinched a bit when he saw a man crouching next to Sherlock, back to them. Tall and slender as described, wearing a creamy suit. He kept looking at Sherlock for a second or two, before starting whispering to him.

The way he was bowing above him – almost caringly – whispering softly, was completely absurd and bizarre.

"Hello, brother dear," Sherlock said then, his voice reflecting pain.

"It's not as bad as it looks like," he continued, coughing. "Really not a reason for you to miss your Diogenes Club meeting."

"Shut up, Sherlock, for god's sake…" John uttered quietly.

"Tell him what I want," Angel said.

"He wants money, safety and police ignorance from you, Mycroft," Sherlock said. "And I think he needs a better dentist, can you get him one?"

Angel started laughing, shaking his head.

"I've always known you aren't an idiot, Sherlock… It's so much funnier to have someone with wits here. He'd even guessed correctly that I'm not German…"

Sherlock was looking up at him with the swollen eyes, managing to put on a small pout.

"A man like you would drop the accent already," Sherlock said and Angel nodded.

"Very well," he said and touched Sherlock's cheek with his gloved hand. Sherlock winced with pain, looking away.

"Don't touch him…" Mycroft whispered almost inaudibly.

"You know, Mycroft, say whatever you want, do whatever you please to do, but I know just how much you care for your little brother. And the thought of him being in so much pain must be – "

"Be silent," Sherlock interrupted him suddenly, rolling over and leaning on his elbows, looking up at him.

"Oh, he's trying to save you the guilt. How very touching… We'll see how long he'll be able to do that…"

The camera moved away and they could hear only Angel's voice.

"I think, Mycroft – brother dear, we need to talk a little bit more personally, don't you agree? I'll let you know soon. And don't worry; I'll treat your brother like he was my own boy…"

When the recording ended and everyone in the room was sitting horrified in silence, Mycroft was actually the first one who got up. He walked over the window, covering his face with a hand. John heard Molly sob next to him and his own throat was closed.

"Mycroft?" he called him. "What's the plan? What do you want us to do?"

"I… want you to stop me from declining his requirements," Mycroft said.

"What?" John widened his eyes. Mary shook her head.

"You're not really thinking of letting him kill Sherlock, are you?" Mary said. Mycroft was standing in silence for a few minutes and John had almost got up to shake his shoulders but was interrupted by Molly, who jumped up from the sofa all of the sudden.

"We _must_ find him, Mycroft," she said, her hands shaking but her voice firm and loud. "We must. There's no other option. We'll do anything to get him back. So use your damn brilliant mind, now it's the time!"

Molly widened her eyes afterwards, apparently shocked by herself. She sat back, muttering: "Wow, wow… Have I actually said that?"

Even John – despite the situation – allowed himself a small smirk. Mycroft was raising an eyebrow watching her, but then he very slowly nodded.

"Fine, Ms Hooper. I identify with your opinion. I'd prefer it less noisy next time, though."

* * *

_There will be more memories chaps in future. Hope you like, let me know, drop a comment, please. _  
_Thanks and enjoy :-) _

_PS: The last memories chap - number 7 - happens shortly before Sherlock disappears. Which is a few months after the last episode of season 3. _


	9. Nightmare

It'd almost been midnight and Molly was finishing a few reports, bowed above the microscope. She enjoyed the peace and silence of the laboratory, usually, but that day she was too tired for that.

"What a way to spend a Saturday night…"

That time, Molly's heart stopped only for one or two seconds before beating again. She looked up, seeing Sherlock's tall and dark figure standing above her. He was giving her the typical small smirk and she pouted a little, although happy to see him.

"How come you always frighten me so much?" she asked, shaking her head.

"Well, you're an easily frightened person," Sherlock said, walking over her table.

"I was wondering if you could show me the files of the two homeless men found dead two days ago on the Cleadale dump…"

"OK," Molly said, as she wasn't able to refuse him anything, finding the files and bringing them to him. Sherlock sat on the table, sinking into the reports.

"Why do you care about them?"

"They belonged to my network," Sherlock said. "One of them contacted me a day before he died, with something important to tell me."

Molly nodded, sighing. Sherlock looked at the pictures of the bodies, included in the file, and his eyes flashed.

"Their throats were cut…" Sherlock said silently, his voice tense. "The cut is very linear and precise…"

Sherlock's eyes widened.

"They were found naked, their arms cuffed… Tell me, Molly, did you find any ash on them, or cigarette burns?"

"Yes, actually," Molly said. "Both of them had a round cigarette burn on the back of their neck."

Sherlock's face turned pale slowly as he was reading through the file. Molly couldn't help it but saw a strange kind of fright in his eyes. She started feeling nervous. It was like a needle pierced the ball of self-confidence Sherlock was usually coming in.

"What's wrong?" she asked.

"The cut, the burns, the cuffs…" Sherlock was muttering quietly. Suddenly, he touched his right wrist unwittingly. He put the file aside, rubbing his eyes with a flinch. Molly knew what that had signalized. She did it too sometimes, when she recalled something extremely unpleasant that had happened to her.

"Sherlock?" she called his name again. "What's happening?"

Sherlock didn't look up.

"You're scaring me," she continued. "What's that?"

"The thing is, Molly," Sherlock said through his fingers, "that there's no possibility the burns and the fact their shoes were found arranged beside them, were a coincidence."

Molly had no idea what he was talking about, as usual. But what she could see, though, was the distress. Frankly, she had never seen Sherlock so distressed before.

"I'll get you a cup of coffee," she said. When she came back, he'd been in the same position. She sat beside him, not sure what to do. Sherlock took the cup wordlessly, visibly upset, as his hand was shaking when he was taking the cup from her. Molly wasn't used to it at all.

"Are you afraid of something?" she asked. Sherlock looked at her quickly, confirming her question unwillingly.

"Why would you be afraid?" she asked, smiling nervously. "You're Sherlock Holmes, the brightest man in the world. You can solve everything, you know…"

Sherlock merely took a sip of the coffee, breathing deeply.

"Do you have nightmares sometimes?" he asked her all of the sudden.

"Yes…" she said. "Often. Happens usually in a mortuary, that's a surprise."

"I had a nightmare once," Sherlock said, looking straight ahead, his eyes unfocused.

"And I lived it," he added, absent-minded. Molly was raising her eyebrows, bewildered he'd actually said something so personal to her.

"But a nightmare goes away eventually," Molly said, trying to reassure him.

"Does it?" he said, lifting his head. Molly was taken aback with the look of his eyes. So cold and scary.

"Did something happen to you?" she asked quietly, suspicious. Sherlock touched his wrist again and Molly lowered her eyes, noticing a pale scar on his skin. He seemed to be hesitating, shifting his eyes and Molly realized it was something he'd been ashamed for, which made her even more nervous and worried.

"Tell me, Sherlock…"

"No," he said finally. "Some other day, Molly."

He rolled his sleeve down, covering the scar. Molly dared to put a hand on his back in a soothing manner. Sherlock accepted the gesture, taking a deep breath. Whatever it was that upset him so, it must have been something really serious.

"You know you can tell me," Molly said.

"Yes, I know," he assured her, his voice quiet. "Thank you, Molly."

"I can help you. Whatever you need and I can do. I would always help you, Sherlock."

"Thank you, Molly," he said, leaning forward and kissing her cheek softly. Molly was getting used to his new way of expressing gratitude. And she liked it.

"Please, don't tell anyone," Sherlock said then. "Not even John. And especially not Mycroft. He'd want to put me in observation or something similar."

Molly laughed briefly, relieving the tension.

"He's just worried, Sherlock, he's your older brother and he looks after you."

"I don't need to be looked after," Sherlock said. "I'm not a little boy anymore."

"We all need to be looked after sometimes," Molly said. "To have the guardian angel."

Sherlock flinched again as she said it, spilling the coffee.

"I'm sorry," he said apologetically. "I didn't mean to spill it all over your specimen, table and trousers."

"That's fine," Molly said, wiping it with a cloth.

"I take it as you don't like angels… Well, it's not a real angel I meant, you know, but people that care for you. You can consider yourself lucky, there are many who would always help you."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

"Sometimes you say quite smart things, Molly."

_"Sometimes?"_ she repeated.

"Yes. That's still fairly often considering the rest of the world," Sherlock said, managing to smirk lightly.


	10. Face To Face

Mycroft was sitting in his armchair, enjoying the peace and silence of the late afternoon. He would find himself alone in the house often with mother and father at work and Sherlock attending dozen of his chemical courses.

He heard the door open and someone running upstairs. He raised his eyebrows. It must have been Sherlock. But this wasn't exactly his way of… walking… Did something happen?

Mycroft got up eventually, walking upstairs and opening the door of Sherlock's room without knocking. He hadn't spotted him at first, noticing him afterwards, sitting in the corner, arms wrapped around his legs.

"Sherlock?" he called his name. "Are you practising motionless sitting now?"

When Sherlock didn't answer, Mycroft approached him curiously.

"Look at me," he said and Sherlock lifted his head up. Mycroft narrowed his eyes.

"Why is there a bloody bruise on your forehead?" he asked, displeased. Sherlock looked away.

"James did that."

"Why?"

"Because I asked him how he liked the latest Teen Witch episode."

Mycroft laughed, shaking his head.

"Are you serious?"

"I thought he might want to talk about it," Sherlock said. Mycroft's expression changed into understanding.

"Oh…" he managed to say. It'd been very long since he had such problems and he had found his way of copying many years ago – he simply didn't care for the average at all, accepting gratefully his solitude. But Sherlock was different. It seemed to Mycroft – despite Sherlock's arrogance – he kept trying it over and over again.

"You can't just go around telling people things that embarrass them," Mycroft explained. "Teen Witch is watched by girls. A macho of your class wouldn't want anybody to know."

Sherlock breathed in deeply, covering his face. It appeared something broke in him, as if he had finally realized he hadn't had a clue how to socialize.

"Come," Mycroft said and Sherlock obeyed, as he usually did. Mycroft sat him down to the kitchen table, taking a bit of cotton, dipping it in disinfection and cleaning Sherlock's scratch. His younger brother winced with a silent hiss. Mycroft noticed the wetness of his eyes that could only be tears.

"Give it time," he told him. "It'll settle. Believe me – when you're older, some James or any other idiot in your class will most probably be polishing cars at the local gas station while you'll be a respected scientist winning a Nobel Prize."

There was a hint of smile on Sherlock's face.

"There you go," Mycroft said. Sherlock looked up at him, his childish face a mosaic of emotions Mycroft couldn't identify. Suddenly, Sherlock embraced him, burying his face in Mycroft's shirt. Mycroft had absolutely no idea what to do, because Sherlock had never done that before and at that time Mycroft couldn't know he would never do it again.

Sherlock moved away, drying his eyes and walking back to his room. Mycroft watched him, feeling a strange mixture of pride and happiness.

Angel kidnapped Sherlock only a couple of months later. And Mycroft was looking at him in the present time.

"I like the anonymity of a public park. You're nearly invisible among all those people. Maybe except for you, of course. You clearly don't belong here. To an ebony office inlaid with gold – yes – but to a public park with ordinary people? That's so wrong…"

Mycroft was standing in the shadow of a tree, narrowing his eyes. It was a very bright and sunny day, the light making him squint. Angel was only a few feet away, back to him, watching people passing by. Mycroft was observing his tall, slim frame, exactly as he remembered it.

"Happy to see me?"

Angel turned around and Mycroft's expression froze. _It was really him._

There weren't proper words to describe Angel. The icy blue eyes, porcelain skin and fair hair, the pale thin lips and long, slender limbs. When looking at his face it was clear where his nickname had come from. Sometimes – if Mycroft didn't know who Angel was – he looked more like a woman. He could be both, along with his soft, calm voice and subtle grace.

And many people would claim he was extremely handsome.

"Talk to me, Mycroft. It almost looks like you're angry," Angel said. He was wearing white suit, almost shining in the sunlight.

"You came alone, that's considerate of you," he remarked.

"I'm not stupid," Mycroft said and Angel smirked.

"We both know that, I think. Á propos, I have a small gift for you."

He took a small plastic bag from his pocket, containing a bloodied handkerchief.

"Belongs to your brother, doesn't it?"

Mycroft looked up, meeting Angel's eyes. Angel smiled slowly.

"I would never touch him, now when he's older. There are others to do the job."

"You know I can't meet your requests," Mycroft said, forcing himself to stay calm. "Money? Maybe. Safety? Let me think. But _police ignorance_? Like ignoring your obvious crimes?"

"Of course not, Mycroft," Angel said. "When I commit my crimes, I expect nothing else but police trying to get me. Never succeeding, though."

Angel sighed.

"But look around. I'm not planning to stay in Switzerland; I just chose it as a country to meet in. I want to travel. And for that I need you. I'm still wanted, although unofficially dead. So I need you to manipulate my file. Change it. Change the main characteristics. You know how to do it so it wouldn't raise suspicions. I haven't survived so long in an underground Russian prison to get captured at an airport."

The years in the prison were written in the wrinkles around his eyes, in the cold light in them and in the sudden dark tone of his voice.

"Thanks to you."

"It wasn't my intention," Mycroft said. "I wanted you dead, not caught."

"I know…" Angel said silently. "That's what you wanted…"

"I won't let you go again," Mycroft said. "Don't expect me to."

"I won't let your brother go, then," Angel said and he approached him, the faint scent of disinfection following him. Mycroft was looking him in the eyes.

"You see his vulnerability; you see it more than anybody else. He's still the little brother to you, isn't he? And he's hurt now, Mycroft, and will be hurt even more. He's holding on because he secretly trusts you so much he believes you will get him out eventually. He would never admit it, not even to himself, but he's waiting for you to help him."

Angel put on a fake, sad expression.

"And you're intending to _sacrifice him_? The person closest to you?"

Mycroft felt the cold anger growing inside him.

"I want to see him. Speak to him."

"Mycroft?!" Angel said, pretending to be surprised. "I thought you said you weren't stupid!"

Angel moved closer to Mycroft, leaning forward and almost touching his ear with his lips.

"Do you know what he whispers at the rare occasions he's asleep?" Angel breathed out into Mycroft's ear.

"Mycroft, help me… Please, get me out. Please, brother, find me…"


	11. Conversation

The metal door closed with a loud bang, followed by the sound of steps.

"Nice job you did there, Milo," Angel said with appreciation, talking to a tall and muscular man standing in the corner of the small room.

"Take a few minutes, would you?"

Milo nodded wordlessly, leaving the room. Angel leaned against the wall, crossing his arms on his chest, looking at the man on the floor.

"I'm happy you're holding on so long, Sherlock," he said quietly. Sherlock had his eyes closed but was listening.

"I've spoken to your brother a few days ago. It may be a surprise to you but he's still hesitating to fulfil my requests. But we both know him, so maybe it's not such a surprise. Anyway, I had to push him a little, telling him how you're weeping every night, calling his name out of your nightmares."

"You idiot," Sherlock growled almost inaudibly, keeping his eyes closed. "Now I won't hear the end of it."

Angel laughed.

"Well, I think it frightened him a bit."

"Of course it did, he probably thinks I'm losing my mind."

"Wow, that _would be_ a tragedy now, wouldn't it?" Angel asked. "You'd rather have your legs cut off than losing your precious mind."

"You bet I would," Sherlock said. He didn't try to move, he knew how much pain it would cause, but his voice sounded strong. It made an impression on Angel, as he was watching him thoughtfully, shaking his head lightly.

"Don't worry I wouldn't let you lose your mind, that would be such a shame. And you should be grateful; I made that up to sway him."

"Thank you so much, Angel, you're a true friend. But nothing can sway my brother once he's decided."

"Don't be nasty, I like your brother. I like him a lot and I've always had. The combination of Mycroft's tremendous intellect and his comical inability to work with his feelings… Which is something you two share, by the way. You're slightly better at it, actually."

"If my brother was there, you'd make him cry by using inability and his name in one sentence."

"Your sarcasm is very amusing," Angel said. "You're much more fun now than years ago… And I'm truly impressed by your endurance."

"Thanks, means a lot," Sherlock replied, breathing heavily. Angel moved closer to him and crouched, not taking his eyes off him.

"On the other hand, Sherlock, I have fairly good memory. And I remember your fear. So I was wondering – is it still there? Do I still frighten you, at least a little bit? Do you sometimes recall our short time together? And what I did to you…"

Angel reached for him, his fingertips touching Sherlock's face lightly. Sherlock looked at him with half-lidded eyes. Angel smiled, drying the blood from his face with his own white handkerchief.

"It's still there, isn't it? Don't be ashamed, Sherlock, even for someone so… inhuman like you, fear is quite natural… And I think you're dealing with it very well."

"I can't wait to push your eyes deep into your skull."

Angel got up, still watching him.

"I certainly hope that won't happen, Sherlock. Now if you excuse me, I have work to do. Milo will take care of you, I heard you get on with each other quite well. What do you think about his knife skills, pretty amazing, aren't they? I'll just have to tell him to leave your face out next time, you're a handsome man, I couldn't bear the fact I destroyed such a good-looking face."

"Can I have a wish, Angel?" Sherlock said, managing to focus on his face.

"Stop telling Mycroft such stupidities, I'd be very grateful."

"Too bad, you should have seen the effect it had on him. You know how he cares. Too much, you would say. Well, he can't help it. He can't get rid of the guilt, as you know. I understand that, I also had a younger brother. Maybe that's why I'm so fond of you."

Angel gave him one last smile before leaving, passing Milo in the door, nodding at him.

"Record it this time, please," he said to him quietly. "I want to hurry things a little and Mycroft is so unbelievably slow. Maybe if he sees my name carved on his beloved little brother's chest, it'll speed him up."

Angel put a hand on Milo's arm.

"And Milo, don't forget our guest is very, very smart, much more than you. Don't let him do anything clever, OK?"

Mycroft was sitting in his room by the table, looking blankly out of the window. He'd been doing it for an hour or so, making absolutely no move. He was back in Britain but not closer to a decision.

How could he save his brother in exchange for letting Angel travel freely over the world killing people? Of course Sherlock was his brother but he wasn't by any means more important than all those people Angel would kill in the nearest future. And considering him, it wouldn't take him long to rebuild his organisation and start his criminal rampage again.

There was a knock on his door, the servant announcing John Watson was there.

"Let him in," Mycroft said. John walked in, standing behind him. Mycroft didn't turn.

"I heard your wife was in the hospital."

"Yes, there were some minor complications," John said. "They want to keep an eye on her until the baby is delivered."

"I'm sure she'll be fine," Mycroft said, feeling the emptiness of those phrases he learned to tell people.

"I was waiting you'd tell me how the meeting went," John said, keeping the anger down evidently.

"As expected," Mycroft said.

"What are you going to do, Mycroft?"

"I can either save my brother and allow numerous people to be murdered or let him die and save them."

Mycroft paused, looking over his shoulder and giving John a cold smile.

"How would you decide?"

John was silent, his eyes dark and full of anxiety.

"One thing is for sure, Mycroft. If you let him die, Molly will flay you alive."

Mycroft snorted in a brief moment of amusement. And right at the moment, he heard the sound that would make his heart beat faster. He saw John froze as they both were looking at the screen of Mycroft's laptop.

_You have one new message…_


End file.
